Lightning Rider (18 page)

I take a gulping breath and straighten, replaying what I read. Spain’s infrastructure destroyed and never recovered? That isn’t right. Spain, for the most part, is thriving. But I haven’t completed the alteration . . . yet. If I could tote the laptop around with me back to Spain . . . 

The entry would change.

Trust the alteration, Penya says.

The memory of that frail little girl holding her dead mother’s hand gives me courage. I cannot waver. Not for my own reasons. Not because of a Roman I’ve grown fond of. Not because of what I read of Viriato’s legendary life.

Right now, in my birth time, he’s already dead. It’s already happened . . . by my hand or nature’s.

In trusting the alteration, I’ll find the truths amid the lies, even though the truth might be scarier.

I shake off the distracting thoughts. It’s time to stash them and focus on getting back to Spain. In Papi’s office I find the books and flip to the beginning of one of the booklets, looking for an entry that can tell me how to get back to the specific time I want. Four pages in I find what I’m after. Once a rider intersects a life, they wear a “path” in the timeline. So, according to this, I can find Constantine anywhere along his lifetime, I just have to figure out when. 

I’m worried about showing up at the wrong place, especially if he
is
this safeguard Ilif talked about. If I show up in the middle of a battle, will he compromise himself to protect me? I don’t want him bound to me, and I sure as hell don’t want him in love with me. Even if it would protect me, it seems wrong to force him.

I burst into laughter. There’s no forcing Constantine. Not even with magic. Any “binding” Ilif’s witnessed could never affect Constantine.

I set my jaw and shake my arms out. Get it together, Evy. Constantine’s not a potential boy toy. I bounce on my toes to rattle my thoughts. I replay our last encounter, Anna’s flitting movements, her bright, narrow room. That’s where. It’s the last place I saw Constantine, and if I time it correctly, he’ll be right where I left him.

Buried in the front pocket of my jeans, my little toy talisman is ready to catapult me, and the metal is warm through the thin fabric. Then I remember Penya’s warning. I dig it out and toss it on the bedspread.

My hands loose at my sides, I focus on my lightning. It sizzles and sparks from my fingertips.

Blackness.

My bolts flare in the darkness, then retreat. In the wake of the blinding light, a warm glow flickers in my periphery. I blink a few times to clear my vision.

Constantine is draped over a massive wooden bench next to a fire, arms spread wide, feet splayed. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him. The fire blazes tall in the hearth, cooking the room. I step beyond the radiating heat and into a cooler section. “Where are we?”

“I thought you were coming right back,” he says.

“How long?”

“A week.”

“Better than five years,” I say. He looks pissed. “What happens now?”

“We missed our best chance. You decipher that.”

Yeah, he’s pissed.

“Should I leave?”

He grabs a mug from the low table by his seat and makes me wait for an answer while he drinks. Some of the amber liquid sloshes down the front of him before he sets the mug down.

I lean closer. “Are you drunk?”

An eerie laugh rumbles through the room. “I’ve been drinking for two days. When you didn’t return, there didn’t seem like much point in saving the wine.”

Now I’m pissed. “Are you blaming me? I’ve done this exactly five times in my life, and you’re expecting me to be some sort of expert?”

He takes another drink and then scrutinizes me over the rim of his mug.

“I don’t need this,” I say. Before I can even turn toward the door, he’s roaring and barreling toward me.

“Don’t you dare leave me!”

I sidestep him, but his arm shoots out and captures my waist. He pins me against the wall with his body, cursing and barely containing his frustrated rage.

I seethe and bristle against him. The crush of our bodies releases a wave of stale wine and unwashed male.

“Why weren’t you here?” he asks, his voice a low growl.

“I just left thirty minutes ago!”

“We failed!”

“
You
failed! Don’t include me in your fuckup! I’m not even on your team!”

He blows out a breath, covering me in a cloud of alcohol, and stares at the wall above my head.

“I hate being forced to depend on you.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t hate that you are? Back off! I’m learning this.”

“We have no room for error.”

“No shit,” I say.

He puts a small amount of distance between us, but his fingers trail down my arms, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he lets go.

There may be some truth in that.

“Will you stay?” he asks. “Will you search with me for another opportunity?”

I weigh his words and measure them against his actions. While I’m not keen on him directing all that anger and frustration my way, I can’t run. I’m done running. 

“Yes.”

He sags in relief. Then he tugs me past the big bench next to the fire. Maps and papers cover a large table against the far wall. Next to it, a small stool sits beneath a narrow table adorned with a single metal platter and cup. A basket of fruit nestles against a white pitcher. The whole space would fit in Papi’s living room.

On the other side of the room, I spot a small cot beyond a half-closed door. Everything in the room is utilitarian and necessary. No comforts, no extravagance.

“Is this your house?”

“Mmm.” He moves maps around on the table, consumed with the task and ignoring my question.

I want to search his house, find the secrets he keeps here, something that will tell me about him, what he wants, why he’s so hell-bent on this mission. “What is that?” I point to a leather bustier on a stand in the corner.

“Your armor.”

I’m shocked. I imagined something like the guys wear, which is super hot on them, but not so much for me. “I thought it was supposed to hide my assets.”

He glances over his shoulder and lets his gaze roam the armor, then my assets. “Anna listens as well as you do.”

I walk over and finger the leather. It’s exquisite. Hard, dark, leather strips lace together beneath the bust, which is soft and supple. At the neck, more hard leather creates a tall collar and rounded caps that would protect my arms. Everything probably has a special name, but I will only ever call them Badass. On the floor are what look like armbands and a leather skirt that will come to my knees, crafted with more strips of leather bound together only at the tops, so the bottom two-thirds can move freely.

I’ve never wanted to wear anything more in my entire life.

“Either put it on or get over here.”

While I finger the leather, he bends lower, examining his battle plan in the dim light from the fire. I allow myself the moment to wonder about his life beyond this mission, about his family, about what drives him. Is it merely love of country? His raging frustration over the failure—my failure, according to him—seems incredibly misplaced. For the second time, I feel like he’s hiding something important.

Just like everybody else.

Taking the armor, I step into the shadows and undress before guessing at how the pieces fit. Each new strip of leather sends a tingle up my skin, and I relish how powerful it makes me feel. Unlike any pair of off-the-rack leather pants, that’s for sure. As I lace the pieces together, I glance at Constantine’s bowed head again and ask, “Why do you want this so badly?”

“The man is an archenemy of Rome.”

“No, this is personal.”

His movements pause. “War is personal.”

I laugh. “Nothing is more impersonal than war—killing another man for conquest, to find a new hill to plant your flag, to cry victor.”

Papers rustle again on the table. His voice is quiet. “You know nothing of war.”

“Maybe.”

“Come.” He waves me forward. “I’ll teach you.”

“No killing.” I cross the room and set my folded clothes on the other side of the half-open door of his room. Behind me I hear a sharp intake of breath and I smile, but when I turn around, he’s addressing the map on the table. My grin widens.

Without looking up, his hand encircles my wrist. He pulls me in front of him and points at the map. “First you must learn strategy.”

Chapter 13

Constantine leads me through the back door, and we cross a large open field stretching several hundred yards behind the building, flanked on the south and west by a tall forest. Short grass covers the flat expanse, and overhead the full moon hangs low, bathing the ground in silver. Cool air caresses my bare knees, and I tug at the hem of the armor pieces.

Grunts and the clatter of weapons from the other training grounds tumble over the rooftop. Fewer may train in the darkness than in the day, but there is no rest here.

In the middle of the empty field, Constantine stops and turns, his hand outstretched, a short sword in his palm. “Another strategy you must know.”

I cringe. “I told you I don’t want to learn how to kill.”

He pokes the handle of the sword toward me. “Then use it for defense.”

“No.” I wipe my palms on my hips.

He drops the sword to his side and lets out an exasperated sigh. “You must.”

“I thought that’s what you were for.”

“I cannot be everywhere.”

“What if I promise to stay close when I’m here?”

He snorts. “Even if I thought that were true, I want you to have a weapon.”

Tendrils of lightning crackle in my palm. “I’m good.”

He glances at my hands, shrugs, and tosses the extra sword to the grass at his side. I’m surprised at how easily that went. I really thought he’d put up more of a—

“Ohmigodwhatareyoudoing?”

He’s charging me, sword drawn. I duck and spin away, barely escaping his attack. Sparks illuminate the night. He charges me again, sword high, face full of intent. I crouch as he lunges and shove my hands toward his chest, terrified I’ll kill him. Shards of bright light explode between us, pushing him away with a bubble of energy. My aim is off and he spins to the side, unaffected.

Frantic and riding a surge of adrenalin, I fling my arms out, and thick ropes of lightning dangle from my wrists. Constantine doesn’t give me a chance to figure them out, but attacks again, his sword low and deadly.

Imagining a bullwhip, I twist my arm over my head and snap my arm to the ground. The bolt releases too early and flies through the night like an arrow until it takes out a tree at the far edge of the field.

Constantine snickers as he sweeps behind me.

I panic, and my other bolt fizzles and vanishes. Before I can turn and defend, he wraps his big arms around me and squeezes tight, immobilizing me.

With his arm around my throat and his sword at my cheek, he whispers, “Try again.”

A small tendril of lightning sputters from my hand and dies. Splaying my palms wide, I try again, but Constantine tightens his grip and, as my breath rushes out, fear seeps in, imprisoning my lightning wherever it lives. My heart races and I fight for air. Too many emotions battle for control. The lightning is there, too—beneath the fear.

“I can’t.” I curl my fingers around his arm and dig into his skin.

“Try.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. A bolt flickers for a moment, then fades. “I can’t.”

“Lightning just is,” he murmurs against my ear. “It does not decide between good and bad. Lightning is not conflicted by right and wrong as you are. Let it exist as it was meant to, and stop trying to restrain its purpose.”

“How do you know?”

“My sky is the same as yours.”

He’s right. Lightning, fire, wind, water . . . they’re all energy. Different forms, capable of different levels of destruction. I judge them, weigh them, dismiss them.

The skin of his arm is hot against my throat. Another transfer of energy. I focus on the heat, concentrate on where our skin touches, the angle of his blade, my fury at his attack. More energy. It’s nearly tangible.

A breeze ruffles my hair. My grip falters on the image. I shake my head, but I get it now.

He lowers his sword and slowly releases me.

I spin around. “What was that?” I shove him, and he retreats until we reach the middle of the field.

“I had to see what you would do. You haven’t tested your lightning as a weapon, and I had to know if you’d cower or scream or run away.”

“Run screaming? Cower? That’s what you think of me?”

He shrugs. “Vast space exists between daily life and battle. No one reacts the same under duress.”

“So you
charge
me?” I push his chest again, and a map of sparks crisscross his chest. He winces. I don’t care.

“I’ve never taken a woman into battle.” Less than a foot separates us. He looks through me for a long time while I seethe, then taps the front of my armor, just below my neck. “You have a warrior’s heart. You have no idea how to control your weapon, but you fight like you do, with no hesitation. I can train someone with heart, but I cannot
give
a man heart, no matter how good his swordsmanship.”

“I’m not a man.” I wave my hands over my chest then raise my flat palms. “No sword.”

He grunts and lifts his sword. “Again.”

I stay put. “I don’t want to learn like this. I know this is how you train your men, but help me learn how to wield this thing before you attack me. Learning under duress isn’t how I work best.”

“We don’t know that. No one’s seen your weapon before, least of all you. Penya and I think this is the best way to test your limits.”

I don’t like that they’re deciding things without me. Never mind that Penya’s been around forever and Constantine’s trained his share of deadly warriors . . . they could at least include me.

“It is the only way. To learn by doing, you learn with your body, and your actions become instinctual. Learning with your head will make you think too much about what you’re doing when the time comes. You will hesitate. You will die.”

“Maybe that’s true for your men, but women . . .” I examine my hands, then meet his eyes. “Everything I do comes from my emotions—to my detriment sometimes—but I learned to lean into it a long time ago. It’s just what I do. Anytime I override my emotions, I regret it. I need information, then I lead with my heart. Take me or leave me.” I cross my arms. “Teach me the basics first. Then you can test me all you want.”